


So touch me or don't Just let me know Where you've been

by Guts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guts/pseuds/Guts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hes grit in teeth and dirt in eyes. As a child, he looked at women like candy and spit out teeth. Jo Harvelle is saying something about guns and his eyes are swimming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So touch me or don't Just let me know Where you've been

**Author's Note:**

> All I ever write about is sad, desperate boy-men who want imperfect ladies. Hot, imperfect ladies.Is there monotony? be honest.  
> I MADE A MIX for this  
> http://8tracks.com/turntechmanking/sharpen-your-teeth

Joanna beth harvelle has the dirtiest mouth you have ever heard.

Its not like the moment you heard that righteous tang of hers, the nasal, soon to be alcoholic burn she inherited from her mother, you didn’t know she spat dirt like saliva. 

She is a queen among scratching, oozing filth.

Shes got eyes that-  
And youre going to stop yourself right there.

You’ve been called many things, things that have punched you square in the stomach. But let it never be said you were a sympathetic bastard.  
Ellen pours you whiskey and keeps her eyes on you, they are still and full of things you are unaware of. A clock moving slow on the surface, but fire and cogs going at 900 miles per hour inside.

You swallow a little, scared? Whats scared? You are a righteous man who has not even so much as kissed the lips of a woman. You can believe that Ellen would stab you if she knew you made passes at her daughter.  
Youre not sure what she’d do if she knew her daughter made them right back at you. 

You come in late because sometimes it’s the feeling you need to have somewhere to come home to. Jo is waiting for you, sound asleep and draped on the couch.  
She is not hot. She is not sexy.  
She is something you couldn’t put your finger on if you tried. Your lips, yes. 

When jo looks at you, its like she is the sun and she is heat all rolled into one and she is smoldering at you like a shit hero or romancing moonlighter.  
You hear your classic rock all in your head Creedence Clearwater Revival wailing about spells and bad moon’s. It’s a movie and you could saunter over and kiss her until she realizes she is hopelessly in love with you and melt into you the way you push knives into people.  
She isn’t jaded enough and you are sure you would make her hurt and bitter. 

She is ugly in her knowledge of you. She sees you the way you see monsters for who they are, glimpses in mirrors of her face cold on yours. She is perfect because she knows the exact rhythm of the worlds motion, she times it and laughs at it when it skips a beat.

Your shoe squeaks beneath you and she is awake and flaring bright as a sun, pistol cocked at you and her finger light on the trigger.

She is disgruntled it is you and you catch it, you catch the way her fingers clench and unclench when they put the gun down. You are twins in your bloodshed, feverish siblings in your search for a heaven you are too trigger happy to touch.  
“Prom was great, mom. Thanks for asking.” You say and it is not your best line.  
She smirks and stretches her arms above her head, her spine cracking wide and your eyes tracing the movement.

“Pregnancy test’s in the cabinet, little lady.” She is a cheeky match for you, and she grins at you with her pink cat tongue between her teeth and her dirty eyes. She drags herself off the couch and slouches away.  
Your eyes curl on the weary lilt of her spine, you feel ashamed to notice, for once in your life.  
Jo is strong. Strong enough to take you on, but there are many things that you cant pin down.

Like that sense about her, how weak she really is. Her body is little and frail against the lines of men she strides with.  
When you think of her you think of the way she leans forward at the bar, her curtains of curl hanging forward. She laughs into the smoky atmosphere of the bar, her teeth catching the sick light from above.  
The smooth pour of her arm filling a glass, the curl of her arm as she cleans the shot glasses.

It fills your head and makes you feel sinking in feelings you don’t know.

 

Beautiful women tend to be crazy fucking banshees. They suck your soul out or try to, no wait. Those are actual banshees. You don’t really know too much about beautiful women, you just bed them when you get the chance.

You remember how this woman you picked up outside a bar, she was lighting her cigarette when you approached her, looked. Exactly, down to the detail and youre a dude and thats weird.

Little, strappy wedges and a white flaired coat, dark hair to her breasts, and wide open blue eyes. 

After you fucked her, she laid on the motel bed breathless and told you that her mother died when she was four.  
You didn’t go near women for a while afterward, you worried they smelled the loss on you.

Could see your thoughts when you sweat on them.

When you were fourteen and a huge asshole who showed his knife off and swaggered around, jo harvelle stuffed snow down your pants.  
She laughed so hard she had to sit, and she snorted like a hyena with her eyes shut for two whole minutes.  
Her eyelashes caught the snow and it was melting in her snarled hair.  
And your stomach turned like she was beautiful and you wanted her, but you didn’t.  
You wanted that moment with her, freezing, soaked underwear and all.  
You wanted to capture every little blemish and scar on her.  
But now its so many years later, youre old enough to drink now and you want to do just that until you pass out.

You can not kiss Jo hard on the mouth.

And you can not drink until you fall.

You are old and your bones nod at you until you sit heavy on the couch and put your head in your hands.


End file.
